


Drabbles: McHanzo

by HellieAce



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Gore, M/M, Other, Sexual Content, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-22 01:50:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7413856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellieAce/pseuds/HellieAce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various drabbles, random timelines, some AUS. Really just a collection of various thoughts put to words as they come along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Omens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1 - Signs are all around you. One needs only to look for them.

The heat of the day lingers much longer than Hanzo thinks it should. The air buzzes with the night insects thriving on the swelter, and he gives an annoyed scowl. Swatting away yet another fly, he then looks over to the man beside him; a certain Jesse McCree. Who, against all odds, is smiling and humming. 

McCree is a strange man though. He looks all grit and archaic rebellion, but Hanzo’s found over the course of his brief time with Overwatch, that the cowboy is too fond of smiling and playing to be anything that intimidating. Only when he’s got Peacekeeper cradled against his palm does he ever see the ferocity of the former gang membership and covert Blackwatch agent. 

And somehow the man seems to be enjoying the heat, even under that ridiculous serape of his. 

“Does this-” Hanzo bats away a fly droning in his ear, “-not bother you?”

“Nope!” The cowboy laughs quietly into the night. He swings his legs a little from where they sit at the edge of a natural table ledge formed by the rocks. The landscape out here forms many natural terraces that are quite beautiful in their own rugged way. Hanzo at least can appreciate that, even if he wishes all these damned insects would drop dead out of the air. 

“S’home. I missed it too much to complain.” McCree’s gazing up at the sky, head tipped back to let the silvery moonlight wash over his weather worn visage. 

And Hanzo can understand that. Homesickness is a familiar ache in his chest. Or rather, it used to be. His first few years of self-imposed exile were taxing, and so many times he’d wished for the comforts of homey surroundings. He’d always have a fondness for home, but at least the pain that wilted his heart had eased over the years. 

So now he simply sits with McCree in the open barrens. The night’s growing darker, and the stars are scattered like the twinkling fragments of broken glass. Spread across a swash of blues and purples and inky blacks, they glitter so brightly without the pollution of city lights to mar them. Out here, everything belongs to nature. The earth, the sky, even them. For a brief moment, Hanzo remembers what peace feels like. 

He forgets that they are stationed here for many weeks to come. That there’s even a small Overwatch outpost behind them. That this is a mission. For a moment, it’s only him and McCree and the rest of the world all around. 

Even when McCree speaks, the peace is undisturbed. Like the warm air simply allows his breath, and does not fault him for it.

“Gonna be a good mission. We ain’t got a thing to worry ‘bout.”

Hanzo gives a brief hum.

“What makes you say that?”

Wordlessly, McCree inclines his head towards the distance. Across the gulch there is a silhouette. A beast, long and poised stalks across the rocky terraces. Long tail and long body, head bowed low, and beautiful tawny fur that ripples over strong muscles, they watch the puma tread. His paws are silent on the rocks, and he pauses only briefly when the wind changes.

He must catch their scent on the downwind, for he raises his noble head, looks to their position, and regards them with a flick of his tail. He does not linger though. The puma blinks. Then the beast is gone, vanishing into the rocks with a few more paces. 

“Good omen,” McCree explains once he is sure the mountain lion is long gone. “We’re gonna be alright.”

“I am glad.”


	2. Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Various drabbles, random timelines, some AUS. Really just a collection of various thoughts put to words as they come along.
> 
> BIG ASS WARNING FOR GORE
> 
> 2 - In which Jesse McCree is not a stupid man, just that he does stupid things. Like nearly getting himself killed.

"There's a legend about the mountain lion 'round here. 'Bout how he got his shape and the marks 'round his face."

"Please, Jesse. You should not speak," Hanzo insists. His hands hover over the cowboy's sides, unsure fingers shaking. The blood that wells from McCree's wounds is thick, and oozes freely from impressive gashes ripping open his skin. Tattered flesh and cloth drips with slick crimson, the wet sheen coating everywhere. The bleeding lacerations are so deep that Hanzo can see where his cracked ribs jut from beneath the gore.

"He did a bad thing, babe. Mountain Lion stole food from Old Man, and paid the price."

"Jesse, I beg of you," Hanzo presses, leaning closer and touching the big man's shoulder. The wounds are not so deep here, but he knows McCree's body is sore nearly everywhere. He's covered in bruises and viscera and blood. There's hardly any way for Hanzo to comfort him. "You must save your strength."

But McCree will not listen. His normally keen eyes are hazy with pain and exhaustion. But he looks up at Hanzo with such determination, that the archer does not have the heart to quiet him again. Shallowly, he swallows his words down past the tightness in his throat. 

"So Old Man pulled Mountain Lion by the tail and stretched him out real long. Mountain Lion roared and roared until his voice broke, and all he could do after was scream." Each word is painfully exhaled, raspy and pitched in miserable pain. McCree coughs roughly. The the sound is wet and rattles in his chest. There's blood pooling on his tongue, and it seeps from behind his teeth. 

Hanzo takes the time to wipe scarlet from his lips. He leans close, and gingerly gathers the mess of a cowboy into his arms. He feels heavy, dull and limp. There's no constriction of his muscles, only the feel of them sliding weakly under his skin. No strength left, McCree is on his last limb.

And surely he knows it. But despite all rhyme or reason, this damned stupid man is smiling. His teeth are red, everything is red on him now. There's so much blood. The smell burns Hanzo's senses. It hurts to see him like this. The stinging in the back of his eyes certainly isn't helping. 

"And when Old Man was done stretchin' out Mountain Lion, he shoved his whiskers into the ashes of his fire to blacken his muzzle. And y'know what he told Mountain Lion?"

"Jesse-" Hanzo starts, desperate to quiet the dying man. He's wasting what little breath he has on silly stories. The rattle in his voice grows worse and worse with every nonsensical word. 

"Yknow what he said, baby?" Desperation colors his words. He sounds afraid. Hanzo feels the fear so palpable it chills his blood. Stops it cold in his veins, and for a moment the archer forgets how to breathe. 

Suddenly, McCree's hand is clutching tight at Hanzo's sleeve. His voice breaks on a whimper. And it dawns on him that the silence is exactly what he's afraid of. If he can hear his own voice, if he can hear Hanzo, then he must be alive. He must be fighting, surviving, pulling through. 

McCree is terrified of being silent forever. 

"Babe?" A cracked and fading whisper. 

"What did Old Man tell Mountain Lion, Jesse?"

McCree's hooded eyes brighten some. It's such a tiny hope that makes them flicker, but it's great enough to break Hanzo's heart. 

"He... He told Mountain Lion that from then on, all his kin would be like him. They'd be long and could only scream. He wouldn't roar like Mighty Jaguar any more."

"That is a terrible tale." Hanzo makes a soft noise, but a forlorn smile is on his lips. McCree can barely see it. Still, Hanzo is smiling. And that keeps the cowboy's shuddering heart beating. No, he can't let go now. Not when there's so many stories left to tell and so many smiles left to see. 

"Poor Mountain Lion," McCree agrees. He settles his head into Hanzo's palm when the archer grooms back his hair. It's a weak motion, though Hanzo recognizes McCree seeking the comfort of touch as the cowboy nuzzles his fingers. Slowly, he grooms his cheek. Hanzo scratches at McCree's beard, feeling the reverberations of a shallow purr within his throat.  
"He didn't deserve it. He was just real hungry."

"Mountain Lion never sought vengeance for what Old Man did?" 

McCree hums. He's unsure. He doesn't claim to be an expert, but he can't recall any of his mother's fables about Mountain Lion's vindication. 

"I hope not. Mountain Lion's been through enough, sweetheart." Hanzo's fingers tighten against McCree's skin. The cowboy is looking up at him. Those usually warm, hazel eyes are bloodshot and unfocused. 

"He has." This time it's Hanzo's turn to agree, and bows himself over his wounded partner. Lips press gingerly to his cheek, peppering gentle kisses along his weather worn face. 

"And now my Mountain Lion should rest his voice and body. You have chattered enough to wake the dead, Jesse."

McCree scoffs. A film of fresh blood splatters his lips as he does. Drawing in a noisy breath, he tries to laugh. Hanzo's always so amusing. At least McCree thinks so. He's always got the cowboy smiling so wide and laughing so true. 

"Rest, Jesse. Please. Help will be here soon."

"But who's gonna keep the dead from catchin' their Z's?"

"Hush, you ridiculous man. Let them lie."

"But-"

Hanzo cuts him off with a pointed kiss. The taste of blood is an uncomfortable reminder that their banter is only to bay the thought of McCree's mortality slipping through his fingers. 

"Please." Hanzo lingers against his mouth,thumbing kindly along his cheeks. McCree finally concedes with a quick kiss of his own. Quietly, he buries into the archer's hand again, and Hanzo resumes his soft petting. 

Hanzo coils himself around McCree's limp body, keeping him close and listening to the sound of his coarse breath. He cannot rest, so tense from the fear that at any moment that last sign of his cowboy's life will vanish. 

And so Hanzo holds him. He does not relent until at long last the whir of the Valkerie suit catches his ears. Looking up, he sees the golden flare of Mercy's wings descending around them. Her voice is marked in worry as she begs Hanzo for an explanation. 

But he can't comprehend her. What he's focused on now is her hands and the way the touch his own, asking him to unhand McCree. It's a lot to ask. What if this is the last time he gets to hold him? What if that rugged warmth never graces his palms again? What if he never feels the sweet vibration of his purring and the scruff of his beard ever again?

Mercy asks too much of him. 

The world asks too much of him. 

How can anyone, anything, ask him to give up this stupid, ridiculous, idiotic, brash, kind, gentle, sweet and honest man? 

"Babe..." McCree. His voice breaks Hanzo's thoughts, shatters them altogether. Mercy can save him. Mercy has to. She just has to. 

"Please," he relents, then begs, "please help him." It's so difficult, but her fingers pry his own from McCree at long last. 

"I will, Hanzo. McCree will be safe with me."

"I believe you..."

It's all Hanzo can do now.


	3. Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 - Everything McCree says is some brand of crude. And anything out of Hanzo's mouth is way too serious. Somehow they make the odd balance work.

“Why must you always have something in your mouth?”

“Heh-” McCree snorts, the twitch of a sly grin tugging at the corners of his lips. Hanzo knows exactly where this is going. McCree’s got all the classy humor of a rambunctious teenager. 

“Don’t.”

“But darlin’ you can’t just set it up like that, and then not expect me to play my hand.” The cigar Hanzo had been complaining of a moment ago is pushed to the corner of his mouth so he can chatter freely at the archer.

“I set nothing up,” Hanzo interjects. “You make lewd remarks out of everything, regardless of my intent.”

“Well, in my defense, I’m fairly lewd in general. All things considered, sweetheart, I feel like you should know better by now.” The damned American is grinning even wider now. Of course. He just can’t turn off that million watt smile, can he?

Hanzo Shimada, assassin and master of the Shimada clan, Dragon of the South Wind and legendary archer can only roll his eyes heavenwards. Defeat isn’t always so bitter, but Gods above he can’t get through that thick skull of McCree’s. _Ever._ There is absolutely no besting the ridiculous cowboy sitting before him. Legs crossed, and his cheek resting against his metal palm, McCree looks so smug in his victory. 

His cigar puffs, fresh smoke rising past his grin. 

“Oh, darlin’, you look so handsome with that mighty sour look on your face.”

“How can you possibly- wait, you’re mocking me again, aren’t you?”

“Nah, nah.” McCree waves his free hand dismissively. How could Hanzo ever accuse of him of that! McCree of all people! “Never baby. I love you too much to ever really mock you. I just love teasin’ you is all.”

Hanzo snorts, quick to turn his head away. Perhaps his cheeks are warming into a reddish hue from the easy way the ‘I love you’ slips from McCree’s lips. He says it so casually, yet so genuine that Hanzo always feels his pulse rise with the words. McCree is so forward and honest, so different from all the deception around him, that Hanzo never fails to be startled by it all. Everything from his crass jokes to his sweet pet names. Hanzo’s not sure he’ll ever be used to it.

Then again, he’s not sure he ever wants to be desensitized to it either. It’s- well... It’s nice. Very nice. 

In his own way, McCree is exactly that. He smiles often, and laughs loudly, and is always so eager to please Hanzo in some way. It’s not always direct, but he feels as if McCree understands that there is no true ire in their banter. And that Hanzo is silently grateful for the companionship. Sure, the archer tends to grow frustrated and confused, but he rarely pushes McCree away. 

“Ridiculous. You are such an idiot.”

“But I’m your idiot.”

Another snort from Hanzo. McCree’s starting to think he really is a dragon, and is just glad there’s not smoke and fire to accompany the mannerism. Else he’d have been roasted alive by now. 

“Fine, you are my idiot.”

The cowboy grins wider at that. He removes the cigar from his lips, rolling it between his fingers before exhaling a breath of hazy smog. It curls and licks at the air, dissipating around that rugged, and unkempt face. McCree really did need a trim. His beard is much more gruff than usual, Hanzo observes.

“You’re starin’, baby.”

“You need to shave.”

“Woah, that was outta the blue.” Subconsciously, McCree scratches his chin. He is rather scruffy, isn’t he? Maybe Hanzo’s right. He could use a bit of cleaning up. “I mean, if you want I can see if there’s a barber open tomorrow. Bit late for tonight.”

“I could do it.” Hanzo cocks a brow, the offer sitting between them for a moment before McCree barks a guffaw.

“Yeah? You’re an archer, _and_ a barber now?”

“I would not say something if I did not intend on being serious, McCree.”

The cowboy laughs, pushing his hands up in a universal sign of surrender. Then he gives a lazy shrug, leaning back to gaze at Hanzo down his nose. 

“Go for it then. Just don’t screw up my mighty good looks, babe. Don’t know how I’d fetch all the pretty ladies without my signature cowboy scruff.”

“McCree, we’ve been dating for seven months. What ladies are you-” and Hanzo catches the joke mid sentence. McCree laughs despite the fact Hanzo proceeds to swat his arm rather roughly in penance. Naturally, he has to remedy the situation in all his charming methods, and calms Hanzo with a sweet kiss. He takes his lips slow and steady against his own, and feels the archer huff. But Hanzo’s quick to melt, and returns the affection ever-so briefly. 

“You never cease to amaze me with your foolishness.” Hanzo breathes the words quietly against McCree’s mouth. Carelessly, McCree laughs again, and places more chaste kisses in the corners of Hanzo’s mouth. 

“But I do amaze you.”

Another victory for McCree. Hanzo exhales hard, having to set McCree a rather pointed look to make him stop laughing again. 

“Settle yourself, lest I accidentally cut you with the blade.”

“Yikes, doll. That sure doesn’t sound like a threat at all!” McCree is still full of mirth, but it is quietly tucked away as he scoots himself to the edge of the bed, and observes Hanzo. The archer rises to gather a towel that he dampens with hot water, and a small blade he keeps in their night stand drawer, along with a bottle of shaving lotion. Setting everything between them neatly, Hanzo kneels on the bed to bring himself close to the big cowboy.

The large man is easily guided by his hands, and Hanzo marvels inaudibly about the simple notion. McCree is entirely at ease, leaning his head into the steady hands cradling his cheeks. Long, graceful fingers trace the edge of his sturdy jaw, following the valleys carved into his jugular by thick arteries. The skin here is soft, and he thumbs over the jut of McCree’s Adam’s Apple, feeling it bob with the subtle noise he swallows down. 

McCree is a man that thrives on chatter and noise and excitement, but he knows how to appreciate a palatable silence. The quiet between them stretches like an ocean, the waves gentle and welcoming. It warm with how close they are, and the touches they share. McCree’s hands find the tops of Hanzo’s thighs, and draw small circles into the strong muscle there. 

Hanzo seems mesmerized by the way he can feel McCree’s life beating beneath his skin. It’s strong, steady, a constant force that he appreciates. Every beat is welcome, and intune to his own. It’s good to feel the cowboy this way. A moment of peace to share. 

“I love you, baby,” McCree whispers. Hanzo feels it loud and clear in the pads of his fingertips where his hands rest on the cowboy’s throat. 

“Mmm,” Hanzo agrees, and blows out a sigh. “You ruin everything with your incessant chittering.”

“I think you like it.”

“I will never admit to such a thing.” Looking away, the archer has to collect himself again. McCree always manages to catch him so unguarded. Damn him.

To distract himself, Hanzo dabs the wet towel against McCree’s jaw and neck, then lathers a thin film of the lotion into his skin. He can feel the way the American purrs while strong hands massage his jaw. Honestly, the man’s just an overgrown cat.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Hanzo chides. He opens up the blade, the sleek edge shining in the soft light of their shared room. 

“Got a handsome stud puttin’ his hands on me. How could I not enjoy?”

“Hush. Not everything warrants a retort.” The archer sets the blade to McCree’s neck. Razor sharp, it slips just shy of cutting into the contours of his jugular. Now at least McCree actually can’t make another stupid remark in that honeyed drawl of his. Lest he cut himself, Hanzo’s finally gotten his beloved quiet back. 

McCree breathes slowly, measuring himself while the blade scrapes his skin. It’s amazing how steady Hanzo’s hands are, never digging the knife into him or missing a single slice. The American has had many a knife to his throat throughout his tumultuous life. But tonight is one of the few nights he actually enjoys himself. It’s a bit of a spectacle, awing at the easy and graceful way Hanzo flips the blade and cleans him up. The swift and sure strokes are intermittently given pause to wipe away trimmings, and to smooth more lotion into his skin. The blade resumes exactly where it has stopped, a predictable and soothing pattern that ends far too soon.

Hanzo wipes the blade clean, meticulous in cleaning it first. Only when it’s polished to perfection does he clean up his cowboy. He has only groomed McCree’s jowls, and cleaned up the extra scruff under his jaw. Shaving a bit away from the length of his beard, and Hanzo’s quite pleased with his work. McCree looks much more refined again. Or as much as McCree can be given that it is, well, _McCree._

“How do I look?” he asks, smoothing his hand over his slightly damp jawline.

“Very handsome.”

And that, of all things, makes McCree tint with shy color. Bashfully, he tips his head down, and makes a soft noise in his throat. Well, seems Hanzo’s got the jump on him this time around.

“You mean it?”

Wiping his hands clean, Hanzo then slips them just under McCree’s jaw. Cupping his freshly groomed cheeks, the archer leans close to press a reassuring kiss to the man’s forehead. 

“Of course, Jesse.” He feels McCree smiling.

“Thanks, sweetheart. And thanks for shavin’ me. I love you.”

“I love you too.”


	4. Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4 - Senseless, they are animals. Turned into beasts, they are their own pack. Violence is the only thing to tame them. 
> 
> Talon based AU where McCree and Hanzo are forcibly recruited to Talon. ***Death and gore warnings.***
> 
> Little abstract, I was very distracted while writing this.

Violence shouldn’t be his first resort. But it is. 

McCree tries to hold it back. His anger, rage, his hurt and pain. But it seethes beneath his skin, writhes and twists like a beast pacing its cage. It’s not so different from his actual situation.

Everything feels wrong. They’ve put a collar on him. There’s one on Hanzo too. They’re different now. His body feels foreign. And staring into the glass panels before them, McCree can see why. 

His irises are a startling shade of crimson. And his attire is an ensemble of blacks and scarlets. A sable coat, and red accents that lend him to his new affiliation. Hanzo’s attire is similar, he sees from the corners of his peripheral. 

McCree is angry. How could this have happened? How? How-

He punches the glass. It does not shatter, but wobbles from the force, reverberating the strength of his adrenaline fueled rage right back through his muscles. It’s like lightning splintering through his nerves.

“Jesse... there’s nothing to be done.”

“We are what we are,” McCree agrees after a pause. Slowly, he lowers his hand. A voice croons in his ear. He ignores it. Nothing to be done. This violence will not save them now.

***

Violence wasn’t always the answer. Violence was a volatile reaction, a deterrence, a warning. You could could bluff or you could come out swinging. Jesse McCree is adept at both. And if there's one thing he knows it's how to answer every question life has asked him with that notorious right hook of his. It seems violence is becoming a better and better response to this captivity. 

Break a man's jaw, and he's not going to talk back. Jesse just wants that. He wants this man to shut up. He thinks about punching him. How good it would feel to crack his knuckles into the man's skull and listen for the wet crunch of bone splintering. 

God damn, why won't he shut his fucking mouth? He's still talking. Repeating himself. Over and over. Maybe he wants McCree to punch him. He must. Maybe the man's a masochist. 

But he can't punch him. He's tried before. 

Everyday. 

Every. 

Single. 

Day.

The collar around his throat tightens up as McCree grows tense. This awful thing keeps him in check. It tightens until he can't breathe and when he tries harder it shocks him. Fine needles embedded into the collar jet into skin like knives and deliver a potent shock that leaves the smell burnt flesh stinging his nose. 

There it is again. 

It takes a moment for the pain to register though. He’s growing dim to it, but it processes, jerking his nerves and causing him to shake his head. Like he could defy it somehow, McCree snarls, and bares his teeth. 

The man’s still talking.

McCree simply has to listen now. But he will not do so without the glint of anger in his eyes. 

***

Violence is sometimes an effective means to an end. 

McCree’s still not used to the tips of his mechanical hand being honed to razor sharp points. So when they dig into flesh, catch, and rip, he’s startled. It had been a wild swing, angry and lashing out. 

It shuts Hanzo up. He doesn’t even cry out when claws cut his shoulder. He simply clutches the open wound that drips red. The warm wet trails trickle down his skin, running like rivers down into the valley created by the crook of his elbow. McCree watches them, memorizes the way they obscure the ink of the dragons that are permanently carved into Hanzo’s skin.

Red’s not Hanzo’s color, he thinks, just before his mind races to agony. The collar is tightening and searing electricity into his neck. He drops to the ground, growling in pain. Hanzo seems to forget his own hurt to comfort McCree’s. Kneeling beside him, Hanzo digs his fingers under the collar, and pulls it towards himself to release his companion from the points of the needles. 

McCree pants harshly, his chest heaving. Leaning into Hanzo, he lets his eyes slip shut . The reek of blood and burnt flesh is like acid on his senses, assaulting them through the haze of pain. Hanzo’s hands are the only gentleness he knows anymore. They hold him, and groom back his hair from where sweat has let it cling to his forehead. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers. “I’m slippin’.”

***

Violence is what will save him.

McCree knows this. Somehow, he’s always known this. From his first kill until his last, McCree knows violence will be his savior, his vice, his conviction. For months and months it has been his guidance, and outlet. 

So when another one drops to the ground, he knows it is necessary. Smoke billows from Peacekeeper’s barrel, the only testament to another Overwatch agent he slays. Some child full of bravado with grandeur in her eyes. McCree watches it fade away. There is no glory in her death. She lays in a heap in the alley, a burning hole between her eyes where the bullet has punched straight through. A clean shot, a perfect kill. 

“As sharp as a thorn, Monsieur McCree.” Windowmaker’s voice coos in his ear. “Some things never change.” The intercom imbedded into his collar crackles with the static of her laugh before she’s out of range again. 

This time, it does not shock McCree either. The needles are dull now. Even if they attempt to bore into his throat, they no long pierce the ring of scar tissue that protects him like armor.

***

Violence is everything. It’s everywhere, it’s all around. Beside him, Hanzo is there, and they are both immune to the senselessness of their killing. Hanzo’s arrows are as true as his bullets, and the bodies drop like flies. When will they learn? When will they stop throwing their own into the jaws of these beasts?

A dragon and a mountain lion. They are predators, monsters, animals with too much thought and all of it focused on a singular voice that chimes to them from the distance.

“In that building, you will hunt,” Widowmaker orders them both. They rise from their crouched position in unison. An Overwatch outpost. Probably crawling with new recruits and eager staff working late into the night to hunt the notorious demons of Talon. McCree glances to his companion. Hanzo’s irises are bright red, alive with the thrill of murder. 

McCree gives pause. 

Red is not Hanzo’s color. This is wrong. What they are- what they’ve become. It’s the first clear thought he’s had in years.

“You hesitate. She will see. Walk forward, Jesse.”

“Hanzo-”

“We do what we must.”

And so they mount the chase. Now is the time to hunt, to be violent. It is all they have, and all they will ever have. 

***

Violence is their downfall. 

“Hanzo...”

He does not respond.

“Hanzo...?”

Still nothing. 

McCree blinks. Blood drips from his brow, the cuts across his face are superficial, but still manage to sting. He blinks again, trying to clear the haze and blood from his vision. It smears everything, obscuring his view of his companion. 

The archer lies next to him, soaked in blood. His chest is torn open, ribs blooming like gorey petals where a set of helix rockets have struck him. They’d obliterated his sternum, shrapnel peeling open his heart, and stealing away the last rapid beats of his companion’s life. 

Hanzo’s not going to answer him, but McCree still calls for him. He drags himself closer, and noses into his neck. The stench of death is overwhelming, but underneath it in subtle tones is Hanzo’s natural scent. It’s so familiar, burned into his mind. It’s been his constant source of comfort. Past the anger, Hanzo’s been a staple of this existence. 

Violence has given him so much; Hanzo’s scent reminds him of the hunt, of the bloodshed that bound them together. 

McCree sighs. 

His entrails are on the floor. They spill out from his gut, wet ropes of viscera and gore. The smell of his own organs torn out of his body is acidic, and if he wasn’t so accustomed to the stink of his torment, he might have retched. As it stood, nothing can phase him anymore. McCree knows violence like an old friend.

They’ve both finally met the end of their hunt. How many had they killed? How many to earn their grisly fate?

Does it even matter?

Nothing matters anymore, it feels like. Violence is senseless, and it’s stolen everything it’s given him and more. Now it’s taken Hanzo. Now it will take him.

“Red ain’t your color, babe,” he murmured against Hanzo’s cooling skin. His fingers are slippery with crimson sheen, but they caress an old scar on his shoulder. Slashes that had torn through the dragon tattoo. Marks McCree had made years ago. 

Why’s it so hard to keep his eyes open?

So hard to breathe...

“Just ain’t your color at all...”


	5. Illness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Been a quick minute since I wrote, but the idea's been there. Sorry for the lapse between these.
> 
> 5 - A good doctor treats the disease, but a great doctor treats the patient with the disease. Also she has a middle-aged cowboy for an assistant. Go figure.

"Your boyfriend appears to be suffering from-" Mercy looks at her charts, leaving McCree in terrible suspense. Tuberculosis? Ulcers? Cancer? That's it, it's cancer isn't it-

"-a common cold."

"Oh, thank the Lord," McCree says, patting his chest over the accelerated thumping of his heart. But he's laughing again when Angela waggles a pen at him. 

"I'll be taking credit for that, thank you." She's always one to sass the rowdy cowboy. McCree would've thought her the sick one if she hadn't. 

"Wait-"

"Hmm?" This time, she seems genuinely interested, the pen now resting against her lips. 

"You called him my 'boyfriend.'"

"Are you and Hanzo not dating?"

"Well," he begins, scratching at his scruffy cheek. The curious tilt to Angela's head isn't helping really. Her interest is kindly, but McCree's not sure about a label. At least, he thinks Hanzo isn't. McCree's hardly ashamed of anything, let alone being the significant other to the broody archer. But sometimes he does wonder exactly what Hanzo sees this as. Are they boyfriends? Overly affectionate companions? Friends with benefits? McCree honestly doesn't know. And if he's being upfront with himself, he's a bit anxious to ask. 

"I suppose," he eventually resumes. At this, the doctor hums. 

"Does it trouble you, Jesse?"

"Huh? Does what trouble me, doc? His cold?"

"No, no. The boyfriends situation." Angela shakes her head, but moves to join McCree on the patient table. McCree sits slouched, with his feet on the floor, whereas the good doctor has excellent posture, and her slim legs dangle well shy of the tile while beside McCree's. 

"I ain't troubled. Way I see it, we can be anythin' he wants."

"But is that what you desire?"

"That's up to him. Whatever Hanzo wants, I don't mind wantin' either."

"Jesse..."

"Just the way I am, doc. Y'know me."

Angela wears a pensive look on her face. That soft, angelic visage hasn't changed in years, McCree muses. She's still as beautiful as the day he met her. Still as worried too. She'll never stop her motherly fussing he knows. Just like McCree can't help his vicarious tendencies. 

"I had hoped that perhaps after Gab-"

"Nah." McCree is quick to interject, his voice sharp despite the drawl. It's not an aggressive tone, but also not one to be tried. Deeply does he love Angela, but there are still some things and some people McCree doesn't like to talk about with her. Or anyone for that matter. 

"I am sorry, Jesse."

"Ain't no trouble, doc. I ain't as bitter as I used to be."

"You were never a bitter man, Jesse. Just hurt and a bit too stubborn for your own good."

"Now, now, doc. You ain't one to call me out on stubborn. Still one of the only human being on this Earth that can get Fareeha to smile. Now that takes some real stubborn dedication."

Angela giggles at that, covering her mouth with a petite hand. It earns a wide and brilliant grin from McCree. He can't help but rumble a sturdy chuckle himself.

After their laughter dies down, McCree is content to be surrounded by a comfortable silence. He doesn't look, but he can feel where Angela rests her cheek against the broad jut of his shoulder. Her weight is slight, the pressure familiar. They've known each other for too long not to memorize the therapeutic grace of each other's company. 

Drinking in a deep breath, McCree lets it fill his belly, holds it, and then exhales in a measured pace. It soothes him some to repeat the motion, focusing on the doctor beside him. She smells of honey and soap and serialization solution. They're things he's always associated to her radiance. His breathing begins to even out, finding a cyclic rhythm. 

"That was Ana's trick." Angela’s voice is quiet, thoughtful, as she brushes away the quiet.

"Still works."

"I use it from time to time as well." Angela tilts her head to place a kiss on McCree's cheek before patting his upper arm. 

"You should be with him now."

"Hanzo?"

"Yes. I think busying your hands will unbusy your mind." She's making up words, McCree thinks. But at least the advice is sound. He's done his best to never think too hard about the past, but it's like no one, not even Angela, understands how important it is for McCree to repress it. So he needs to forget again. Tending to a sniffly, sneezing boyfriend just might do the trick. 

"I'll try, but he ain't gonna listen to me. It'll be somethin' like 'Oh McCree, you fool, my honor is too strong to be defeated by an illness!'" His impression of the archer is poor at best, but it earns a giggle still. Angela swats him playfully. 

"Stop that. You shouldn't make fun of a sick man," she attempts to chide, though most of it is obscured by little snippets of laughter while McCree continuously attempts to mimic Hanzo's typically foul expressions at her. 

"Jesse!" 

"A'ight, I'll quit." The cowboy puts up his hands, conceding before Angela can swat him again. There's so little malice in the way she bats him though, that McCree is still tempted to continue. 

"But in all seriousness, doll, he really ain't gonna listen to me. Get the feelin' I'll have to hogtie him to the bed."

"Then I will accompany you. He can't say no to orders straight from the doctor herself."

"Then you don't know Hanzo," McCree corrects, smirking. If there's anyone that understands the scope of Hanzo's defiance, it's McCree. The man's a mountain that just won't be moved. 

"We shall see. I have my ways." Gracefully, Angela picks herself up from the table, and reaches for her coat. Tossing it over her shoulders, she holds an arm out for McCree. The cowboy rises with much less poise to allow her to loop her arm within his own. 

They walk like that, something akin to a lady and her gentleman, down the hallway. The base layout is simple, just a series of wide corridors with rooms alternating between either side. McCree and Hanzo's shared room (formerly McCree's bachelor pad) is at the very end, and the last on the left. 

The door's been left unlocked from where McCree had previously exited to visit the doctor. Now returning with her intow, he enters with a loud greeting. 

"I'm back, sunshine!"  
A groggy groan is the only sound that greets him from under a bundle of shivering blankets and McCree’s serape all tangled up.

Hanzo's just as worse for wear as when he left him, and McCree is quick to disengage from Angela to be at the archer's side. The doctor doesn't seem to mind, and watches as McCree kneels onto the bed to check on Hanzo. His hands are sure and gentle as he touches Hanzo's flushed cheeks. He's notably damp and feverish, and doesn't seem to wish to be coddled. He never does, but being this damn feeble infuriates Hanzo enough to want to squirm from his boyfriend's touch. 

"Baby, you're gettin' worse. I brought the good doc to help me with you."

"I do not need Dr. Zeigler's assistance. You are having her waste her valuable time."

"I am flattered you find my time so precious, Hanzo. However, I'm here of my own volition. You certainly have a severe cold, and you must stayed confined to bed. Please allow Jesse to fetch you anything that you need."

"Nonsense," Hanzo argues once he hacks out a wet cough. Or maybe it was a sneeze. It’s a bit hard to tell with the way Hanzo’s attempting to scowl through his runny nose and hoarse throat. "I can more than do enough for myself."

"Baby, just lemme help you. I-" 

"No, I will not be treated like an invalid over a simple cold." Another cough-sneeze that makes him dizzy.

"Hanzo-

"I said no-"

"And I said, you will do no such thing, and allow Jesse to help you." Angela takes a much firmer tone, quieting both males from their one-sided bickering. 

"But Dr. Ziegler-"

"No buts. Doctor's orders."

Hanzo makes to speak out again, but a look from McCree is actually enough to make him swallow it back down. The cowboy rarely becomes stern with him, so when he does, Hanzo wisens up about just how he reacts. He’s stubborn, not stupid. Arguing with a pair as iron-willed as Mercy and MccCree would get him all of nowhere anyways. Choking down his pride though is just as bitter as he imagines the medicine will be when Angela pulls out a prescription pad from her pocket.

She scribbles something in her less than tidy script, tears it free, and then hands it to Hanzo with a smirk.

“That is for a fever reducer and cough suppressant my lovely assistant here will pick up for you. But for an extra speedy recovery...” Much to his horror, McCree is wearing the same smug look when he glances sidelong upon hearing a giggle. Somehow he just knows he’s getting played by his mischievous caretakers.

Confirmation comes when he actually reads the second note.

“This is a joke.” He glares up at the doctor from under furrowed brows. The lines on his forehead knit together, and he crinkles his nose. Disdainful, he shoves it at the cowboy when he starts snickering like a rambunctious child. Which he is, Hanzo decides. The both of them are children with these antics.

“If it’s on Angela’s pretty paper, it’s official, babe.”

“I refuse to accept this. How is that going to help me?”

McCree looks to his partner in crime, and snorts. She’s barely holding back laughter, the line of her jaw taut and lips pursed. Her eyes shimmer with mirth, and finally a bit of a giggle escapes. 

“As I said, Hanzo, these are the doctor’s orders.”

“But this is not a prescription! These are not...” Hanzo trails off into a sigh. His words are drowned out anyway once Angela’s giggle tumbles into her melodic laugh. McCree is no better. He’s howling and flopped over on the bed in this shared joke on Hanzo. The archer huffs, loudly, attempting to reconcile their ridiculous and jovial antics. 

So he waits, arms crossed as the two have their fun. It’s not helping the sinus headache that’s currently making his whole face uncomfortable and pressurized. He just wants to go back to bed. 

“Are you quite done?” Hanzo weakly punches McCree’s arm. He’d have hit him harder had his strength allowed. The cowboy certainly deserved it for playing a bad joke on a sick man if anyone bothered to ask Hanzo’s opinion. 

“Hah! Sorry, sweetheart,” he says, wiping away stray tears by smudging the back of his mechanical palm against his eyes. Angela is doing just the same with much more grace, petite fingers dabbing at her cheeks. Hanzo seems to be the only one not enjoying this prank. To no one’s surprise, of course.

“Ridiculous,” the archer chides, “the both of you.” It comes with much less bite, and he looks at the stupid paper again. 

“‘Cover your chest’ is completely sound medical advice.” The doctor leans up on her toes, and taps the paper in Hanzo’s hands as if to drive the point home. “You should stay warm!”

“That is not what you meant by this, and I know it.”

Angela simply hums, and sends Hanzo’s a knowing wink before pivoting on her heels. She tosses them a little wave back, making for the door. 

“I trust you will enforce my orders, Jesse?”

“‘Course, ma’am.”

“Good! Now get some rest you two! I will check back before supper tonight.” That said, she exits with a bit of a spring in her step. It’s always a good day when she gets to tease some of her less willing patients. 

When she’s gone, Hanzo exhales a noisy and mucus-impeded sigh. Even through the distortion, McCree can tell it’s with draining patience and annoyance. It only broadens the cowboy’s grin.

“Here, doll.” McCree leans to snatch a discarded shirt from the floor, and tosses it at Hanzo. 

“I refuse.” Hanzo attempts to bat it away as it sails listlessly at him. He misses and just ends up with the damn fabric tangling up on his arm. An irate snarls follows, and the shirt is promptly balled up and pitched back at McCree’s head. 

“Now, now,” McCree starts, inching closer to Hanzo with the shirt. “Doc said you have to cover up. No more leavin’ your jugs hangin’ out.”

“My what?” Hanzo retorts, mildly horrified at the cowboy’s choice of words. McCree doesn’t even bother answering before he’s wrestling the shirt onto Hanzo. Or at least, he’s trying. Even sick, Hanzo puts up a fight, squirming and growling at his boyfriend. A hand gets shoved in the cowboy’s face, and he’s elbowed once or twice in the ribs, but he does manage to get the baggy shirt on Hanzo. Ruffled and hair all a muss, Hanzo sniffles loudly. He’s not pleased, that’s for certain.

“There, don’t you feel better already?” That stupid million watt smile McCree likes to wear is flashed at him, and even now he can’t resist it. He attempts to keep up appearances, and scowls more. McCree thumps his back in response, bursting an unexpected cough from the archer that nearly winds him. Sometimes he thinks McCree forgets just how big he is, and the accompanying strength that follows. 

“No.” It’s pretty definite, even if it’s barely above a wheeze. He tugs uncomfortably at the fabric covering his chest. It’s soft, and smells like McCree’s soap, but he still resents it on principle. 

McCree leans close, and smooches Hanzo’s feverish cheek while the archer is distracted.

“How ‘bout now?”

Hanzo squints. 

“Perhaps.”

McCree tries again, this time kissing his forehead.

“Now?”

“Mmm.”

McCree tilts his head, hazel eyes blinking curiously. 

“Much as I love you, babe, I ain’t kissin’ your mouth. You’re sick.”

Hanzo feels the disappointment in his chest like the itch before he’s going to cough. Or maybe he just has to unsettle his lungs again. But McCree has a point. 

“Then I am owed a debt.”

“A kissin’ debt?” McCree laughs when Hanzo nods. That’s agreeable. He’s never minded owing a few kisses. “Then you got yourself a deal. You follow the doc’s orders and get better, and I’ll give you all the kisses you could ever want.”

“Very well. Now shut that loud mouth of yours and let me rest.” Hanzo’s tone is much lighter now, lulled by exhaustion; there’s even the faintest hint of a smile gracing his lips. However, this is the most he’s been up the entire day, and he still hasn’t even left the bed. So when he lies down to curls up amidst the nest he’s made for himself, McCree cuddles up to his back quietly. 

Before McCree has a chance to whisper good night, Hanzo’s passed out, and the cowboy smiles into his shirt collar before drifting off as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The doc file for this is named 'Covva yo tiddies, handsoap' and I think that speaks volumes about me as a person


End file.
